


Korpimaan kutsu

by Feanor_in_leather_pants, rohkeutta



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Bears, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017, Fairy Tale Elements, Finnish Mythology - Freeform, Fluff, Folklore, Forests, M/M, Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11109615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanor_in_leather_pants/pseuds/Feanor_in_leather_pants, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: The Wise Man teaches him sometimes if he catches Steve puttering around the woods: how to read the trees and the moss, when to listen to the birds and when it’s better to leave their advice untaken. He teaches Steve about the bears and why you’re never supposed to call them by their real name; tells him grittier and truer stories about the woodsfolk than the old ladies in the village.“Bear no ill will for the woodsfolk,” the Wise Man tells him. “Washer hags will tell you to never drink from a forest-dweller’s cup, but if you’ve always treated Tapio’s court with respect, they will remember it.” He watches Steve with a critical eye; an old man with his long beard and ragged clothes, bird bones and animal teeth in his pockets. Then he pokes Steve’s chest with one bony finger. “You carry the woods with you, son,” he says. “Don’t fear them. Let them invite you in, when they’re ready.”





	Korpimaan kutsu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissyPJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyPJ/gifts).



> Collaboration for Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017, with art by Feanor and fic by rohkeutta.
> 
> Huge thanks to Fox for invaluable feedback and suggestions, to Gerry for plot help and beta read, Helene for being a champ, Feanor for inspiring art, the RBB mods for an incredible bang experience and helping hands, and to all of those who acted as my test readers and fueled this 1000% self-indulgent nosedive into Finnish folklore. "Korpimaan kutsu" is Finnish and roughly means "Call of the wild land".
> 
> I have taken liberties in adapting the folklore to my means in this fic, but most of the descriptions about beliefs are accurate. Feel free to come talk to me about it in the comments, if you're interested to hear more!

  
"Tuoll' on otso synnytelty,  
mesikämmen käännytelty  
luona kuun, malossa päivän,  
otavaisen olkapäillä,  
ilman impien tykönä,  
luona luonnon tyttärien.”  
  
“There was otso born,  
Honey-paw turned ‘round,  
Near the moon, by the day,  
On the shoulders of Otava,  
Among the air’s maidens,  
With the nature’s daughters.”  
  
\- Kalevala, Rune 46

_***_

It’s the height of summer, barely two weeks after the midsummer celebrations, and Steve’s searching for the season’s first bilberries. He’s deeper in the woods than Mother would probably approve of, but Steve’s nearly nine years old already, and he knows the woods better than he knows his own backyard.

He’s just found a handful of chanterelles, golden and large enough for eating, when he’s startled by a cuckoo calling in the nearby tree. When Steve turns to look, the bird is staring down at him, head cocked curiously. It flies off, landing in a pine tree a couple of yards away.

 _Hear a cuckoo call before breaking fast, and bad things will ruin your summer_ , Mother’s voice whispers in Steve’s head, just as the cuckoo sings again and ruffles its feathers impatiently.

Steve frowns, puts the chanterelles into the pocket of his vest and follows the bird, a little hesitantly. Mother has told him to never fully trust a cuckoo, even though they are the summer-bringers, comfort-givers. But there’s something urgent in the call, and Steve has already eaten in the morning, so he knows it’s not possible for the cuckoo to spoil his summer.

The cuckoo doesn’t lead him far: over a small hill into a nook where the sunny patches are scarcer. There, between two spruces sits a boy, around Steve’s own age. He’s got dark hair long enough to fall into his eyes and fine soft-looking clothes made of brown leather and pine-green cloth. His ankle is twisted between two large roots, and he’s pulling his leg, trying to free himself.

“Hey,” Steve calls as he scrambles closer, the cuckoo sitting in one of the trees, observing them. “Are you alright?”

The boy looks up, and his eyes are startling in the dim forest, large and green-grey in his pale face. He looks surprised to see Steve. Steve’s never seen him before, but he could be from a village a little further away.

“I’m stuck,” the boy says, frustrated, after opening and closing his mouth a couple of times. His voice has an odd, melodic tone Steve’s not heard before.

Steve falls on his knees next to the boy and inspects the roots. They seem sturdy, but Steve spots a place where the moss under them is deep and soft, like a pillow or a place of worship. He takes one of the chanterelles from his pocket and presses it into the moss, murmuring, “Please let him go.”

The boy watches with sharp eyes as Steve pushes slightly at the thinner root, and suddenly the pressure lifts, and the boy’s pulling his foot out without problems.

“Traitor,” the boy mumbles under his breath, swatting the root lightly, then moves his ankle experimentally, grimacing.

“Don’t hit the roots,” Steve scolds. “The forest folk doesn’t like it. Thank you,” he adds politely, turning to the roots again.

The boy rolls his eyes, but quirks a smile at Steve. “Thank you for the help.”

“You’re welcome!” Steve gets up and extends his hand to the boy. “Can you walk?”

The boy grabs his hand and pulls himself up, gracefully, putting his weight carefully on the trapped foot. “It hurts,” he says. “But it will be alright. I can manage the way home.” He looks up, turns his head like he’s listening. “Yes, I will be fine. Thank you again.”

Steve nods, looks up too, and blinks. The sky isn’t as bright as it was when he followed the cuckoo, and he’s startled to realize that it’s a lot later than he thought. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “Mother will be worried.”

The boy smiles at him, touches Steve’s forehead with his finger. “Good luck,” he says, and turns towards the shadows, like he’s waiting for something.

Steve smiles back and starts climbing up the hill, heading towards home. He has to go slow because of his weak lungs, and when he reaches the hilltop, he glances back, startling.

The boy is slowly limping away, but he’s not alone anymore: his hand is buried in the fur of a huge brown bear, supporting his walk. The bear is nosing at the boy’s stomach, like it’s searching for food or injuries, and Steve can hear the boy’s laughter float up the hill: happy and clear, like a running stream.

The sight fills Steve’s chest with sudden giddiness, like his heart is going to burst from sheer happiness, and he closes his eyes for a second, not sure if what he saw was real.

When he opens them again, the woods are quiet and empty, but his heart still feels warmed.

*

Mother is standing at the door looking angry and worried when Steve arrives home.

“Where have you _been_ _?”_ Mother asks, relief breaking over her face as soon as she spots Steve. “You were supposed to be back a lot earlier, young man.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, hurrying to cross the yard. “I met a boy who was stuck and needed help, and I didn’t realize how late it was.”

Mother’s expression softens. “Alright, my kind boy,” she says, strokes Steve’s fair hair as Steve presses close to give her a hug. “Who was he? Was he from the neighboring village?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, turning his head to look up at her, giddy with excitement. “He was really nice. Mother, I think he left with _otso_! He was walking next to it, but when I looked again I didn’t see him any more.”

Mother’s face turns grave in an instant. “Steven,” she says, crouching down and grabbing him by the shoulders. “If you see him again in the woods, _turn and walk away_ , you hear me? Run home _immediately._ ”

Steve nods, hesitant. Mother’s sudden seriousness scares him a little, because the boy with lichen-grey eyes never struck him as dangerous, and even seeing him with the bear didn’t fill Steve with dread but odd happiness.

“Boys who walk with honey-paws belong to the forest realm of Tapiola,” Mother explains, a nervous crease between her eyebrows. “It’s not safe to meddle with them. You’re my only son, Steve, and I never wish to see you grabbed by the woodsfolk. I know you know your way in the forest, but be careful and stay away from strange boys and bearlings, alright?”

“Okay,” Steve says, still a little hesitant. He’s heard stories about changelings, of course, from old women in the village, but he’s always thought that the most malicious folk reside on swamplands or below the ground in their vast tunnel cities. To Steve, the woods have always been the safest place in the world after home, and he’s never felt threatened by the wood-spirits or Tapiola’s folk.

Mother pulls him into a hug that’s tight and warm, and Steve puts his arms around her, thinking about the light in the forest-boy’s eyes.

His chanterelles end up a little crushed, but they still taste good.

*

The boy with a bear never crosses his path in the woods again, and slowly Steve starts to forget him. Autumn comes, and with it the bear hunts: the old songs, sung before the hunt, slow and melodic, and the great feast for the spirit of the bear after it’s been successfully brought down.

The skull of the bear is raised up to the kallohonka tree seven days after the hunt, facing east, and the bones are buried under the pine like the tradition calls. Steve’s there with Mother, clutching her hand and watching the chief of the hunt slowly climb up into the tree, careful of the older skulls. There are so many of them; their village is young, but still a lot older than Steve is.

Steve is still too young to become the groom of the bear himself, and he’s glad for it. He feels ill at just the thought of sitting at the head of the feast table with a girl his age - the bear’s bride - and the severed head of the brought-down bear. It’s a great honor, he knows it, but he much prefers to follow it from the sidelines, content to listen to the songs.

“Otso, forest-apple, Otavainen, have a safe passage back to the skies,” the Wise Man of their village calls as the bones are buried, and Steve squeezes Mother’s hand a little tighter.

The clearing is quiet and still, not even a faint breeze rustling the trees. It’s a clear, beautiful day: the sky is a vibrant, beautiful blue lid over the forest, and the light is already a lot more sideways than in August.

“Good luck on your rebirth, _kouko_ ,” the Wise Man says, laying the last dirt on the bear-grave, upon the pile of turned soil. “We wish for the golden chains that lowered you down on the land to lift you up again, to prowl the curve of the Scythe.”

 _Good luck_ , whispers the forest-boy’s voice suddenly in Steve’s head, and he shivers, remembering the strange day in July, the pale eyes of the bearling. Everything about that  summer afternoon is a little misty in Steve’s memory: soft, a little hazy, dream-like, like it’s been wrapped in cottongrass.

Steve stares at the skull which has been carefully placed on a branch, and wonders if this bear was the one he saw in the summer. The thought makes him sad, and he swallows, hides his face in Mother’s dress to keep from crying.

Maybe the bear will be reborn, he thinks, to make himself less upset, and puts his hand into his pocket, touches the bundle of soft underfur he found in the woods last spring. Maybe, if he just squints hard enough, Steve will see her swinging in the golden chains at night, when Otava is bright and low upon them.

*

Steve grows up with the seasons: the days grow longer and turn into endless, light summers, then shorten again when autumn draws near. Every autumn, more bears are brought down and more skulls raised into the tree, and Steve no longer thinks about the boy he once met in the woods.

The forest stays as his second home - by the time he’s thirteen, he knows every crook and hillside in a four-mile radius from the village; knows where to find the best mushrooms and berries in the season, knows the unseen trails the forest folk frequents and how to stay out of their way.

The Wise Man teaches him sometimes if he catches Steve puttering around the woods: how to read the trees and the moss, when to listen to the birds and when it’s better to leave their advice untaken. He teaches Steve about the bears and why you’re never supposed to call them by their real name; tells him grittier and truer stories about the woodsfolk than the old ladies in the village.

“Bear no ill will for the woodsfolk,” the Wise Man tells him. “Washer hags will tell you to never drink from a forest-dweller’s cup, but if you’ve always treated Tapio’s court with respect, they will remember it.” He watches Steve with a critical eye; an old man with his long beard and ragged clothes, bird bones and animal teeth in his pockets. Then he pokes Steve’s chest with one bony finger. “You carry the woods with you, son,” he says. “Don’t fear them. Let them invite you in, when they’re ready.”

 _Let them invite you in_. Steve thinks about those words often when he’s lying in his bed, tucked under the thick duvet he needs even in the summer, pondering their meaning.

The Wise Man has no respect for, or need of it from, other people, only for the woods and the lakes and the wide swamps and those who inhabit them; and for the hiisi, where they bury their dead and introduce the newborns to past generations. But he has respect for Mother, because she is a healer and knows her way with the herbs and sacred plants. For Steve, the Wise Man has only kindness and patience and so, so much knowledge.

Mother is a little unnerved by the Wise Man and the things he tells Steve, but she doesn’t prohibit Steve’s visits to the Wise Man’s hut. The weight of knowledge makes him grow older and serious quicker than his peers in the village; sometimes Mother looks him in the eye with such sadness, and says softly, “You left childhood so early, my boy. I wish I could’ve protected you from life for longer.” Then she touches Steve’s forehead and says, “Sometimes I feel like the forest took you anyway.”

 _Maybe the forest didn’t take me_ , Steve thinks. _Maybe it was inside me all along._

He stays short and skinny for a long time, looking younger than he is, gangly and awkward, then shoots up like a young weed somewhere around his sixteenth birthing celebration. One morning he bends down to kiss Mother goodbye as he’s off to the lake to fish, and realizes that he’s taller than her.

*

It’s mid-September, and Steve’s sitting on a tussock of moss and bare bilberry shrubs, taking a break. He’s been up since the dawn, picking lingonberries for Mother, and now it’s nearly noon, the sun at its zenith. There’s a magpie prancing on a tree stump nearby, and Steve’s watching it as he eats the bread and salted pork he packed as his lunch.

“No messages to deliver,” he tells the magpie as it cocks its head at him, like it’s asking a question. “I’ll call if I need to.”

The magpie ruffles its feathers, plucks a lingonberry off the shrub and flies away. Steve finishes his lunch, takes a swig of fresh water from his canteen, and stretches out on the forest floor, basking in a patch of sunlight.

He’s not far from the village: if he strains his ears, he can hear the yells of the children. The kallohonka is near, and he’s been catching glimpses of bone-white between the branches every now and then as he’s straightened his back. But the forest is quiet, with only light wind rustling the trees, and crows croaking somewhere, and when Steve closes his eyes, it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

There’s a man with him.

There’s a man with him: tall and willowy, sitting on his knees on top of Steve’s thighs. His eyes are a curious, pale shade of green-grey, and his hair is long and dark, worked into an intricate braid.

“Who’re you?” Steve asks, but words feel strange in his mouth, like it’s dry and full of dead leaves.

In response, the man slides his hands up Steve’s thighs to his stomach and up his chest, until he can lie down on top of Steve and pillow his head on Steve’s shoulder. He’s about Steve’s own age, and light as a feather, bird-boned, as Steve automatically puts his arms around him.

“You know who I am,” the man says, and his voice is low and melodic, tugging at something forgotten in Steve’s heart. His hair is soft, when Steve can’t help but turn to push his cheek against it, and his lips taste like wild honey and bilberries when the man tilts his face up to kiss Steve.

Steve’s nineteen, and he’s kissed some girls, both from his village and the one a couple of miles away. But this is different from the playful, fumbling kisses at the spring fair: the man kisses like he means every second of it, like Steve is something to be cherished, and Steve’s nearly panting when they part, overwhelmed.

“You helped me once,” the man whispers against the underside of Steve’s jaw and pushes himself tighter against Steve in a slow, sinuous roll of his body. He’s warm under Steve’s hands, and his smell is heady, like bird cherry blossoms and sun-warmed, resin-filled pine needles.

Steve draws a shaky breath, realizing that he’s achingly hard in his breeches. “You grew up,” he says stupidly, and the bear-boy laughs. His hand feels like it’s burning through Steve’s shirt, leaving a brand on his chest.

“I did,” the forest-boy says, “and so did you. But in Tapio’s halls I’m barely a seedling, while in your village, you’re already a young tree.”

Steve kisses him again, just to feel that honey-sweet mouth curl up into a smile, and runs his hand down the man’s side. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and the forest-boy lets him push a leg between his, until they’re tangled together from chest to toe.

“I can’t invite you in yet,” the man says softly, kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth, his forehead, the apple of his cheek. “But I will wait for you. If you ever find yourself in distress, call for me, bearling. Call for me, and I will come.”

“Why?” Steve asks, and the man smiles.

“Because the forest lives in you,” he says and puts his hand over Steve’s heart. “And so do I.”

When Steve startles awake, he’s alone. It’s been barely a quarter of an hour, judging by the sun, and a curious squirrel is poking its nose in Steve’s berry basket.

*

Mother dies in the winter, several moons before the twenty-third celebration of Steve’s birth. Her ashes are laid to rest in the woods and her spirit in the hiisi, and all Steve is left with is a heavy heart and an empty house.

Mother’s ashes have barely been covered with fresh snow, when more bad news arrives: the man who owns their house wants it for his daughter and her husband-to-be, and for Mother’s unpaid rents from when Steve’s Father died to be settled.

There is a carpenter in the village whom Steve could ask to build him a new hut, but he already has Mother’s debts on his back, and no money to pay for a house. Steve’s strong and hard-working, but nobody wants to employ him in the middle of the winter, when the logging season is already almost over. He knows the forest in and out, but he’s a rotten hunter; there’s no cattle to be herded in the snow; and the village has little use for a man who knows how to read the woods, while the Wise Man is still alive.

The houseowner’s brother lives near the ocean, and suggests that Steve goes there, to live in servitude until Mother’s debt is paid. It’s kindness, Steve knows it, but the thought of leaving the woods and Mother’s grave behind makes bile rise up to his mouth.

He goes to the Wise Man and asks if there’s anything to be done, some way to stay and pay for his upkeep. Wise Man looks at him for a long time; Steve is no longer the frail child he was, but strong and tall like a pine.

Then the Wise Man says slowly, “Perhaps-- perhaps. Help comes from strange places, Steven. You are a good man, and your heart belongs to the forest. This is not a good time to take a journey. It’s time for honey-paws to give birth and care for their cubs in the winter nests; it’s time to embrace the woods and curl deeper into them.”

 _Bears,_ Steve thinks, and an unbidden memory rises in his mind: pale green-grey eyes, dark hair soft like fur on an animal’s underbelly, lips sweet like wild honey. _Call for me, bearling. Call for me, and I will come._

“Thank you,” Steve says to the Wise Man, who looks at him knowingly, nods his head as a farewell.

“Be patient, Steven,” he says. “Roads are rough and long. A quick gust of wind isn’t enough to bring anybody in; it takes time. I wish you all the best.” He touches Steve’s forehead with his finger. “Let them invite you in when they’re ready.”

*

It’s been a long time since Steve has been to the kallohonka: he didn’t participate in the hunting celebrations last autumn, too busy caring for Mother. The woods are hushed, silent under the snow as he walks to the tree, the empty sockets of the skulls watching him approach.

His hands tremble as he falls to his knees and looks up at the pine tree pleadingly. “Kontio,” he calls softly, “Otso, forest-apple, Otavainen. You once told me you would help me in distress.” He swallows, raises his hands pleadingly towards the highest skull in the tree. “Mother is dead. They’re selling me, sending me to servitude to the village near the ocean. I can’t live without the woods. Help me. Help me, please.”

He takes a fresh loaf of bread from the cloth he slung over his chest and puts it down; a desperate offering to appease the spirits. Then he just sits there, staring at the untouched snow under the kallohonka, cold slowly seeping through the knees of his breeches. The forest is quiet, his breath making white puffs in the still air.

Then, suddenly, a strong breeze blows through the trees, lifting snow into the air around the bread, and Steve almost bursts into tears of relief. He’s been heard. The offering has been accepted.

Miles and miles away, in the crossroads of two paths invisible to human eyes, Bucky looks up from the tiny, excited bear cub on his lap, as the wind rustles the trees. _Time to go_ , he thinks. _He’s waiting._

__

*

The preparations are quick: a man rides to the village by the sea to make arrangements, and returns just few short days later with the news that everything is ready for Steve to be employed there.

“They won’t care much about your knowledge of the woods,” the man says, shrugging, unknowing how Steve’s heart gives a painful clench at the words. “But you’ll make a strong fisherman.”

Steve wishes Mother was still alive. He goes to the hiisi to tell her spirit about how they’re trying to make him leave; about the help he called. The crows call at him, sympathetic, from the trees, and for a moment, the familiar smell of Mother’s crowberry soap lingers in the clearing.

Steve packs his few belongings, and goes to bid the Wise Man farewell. The Wise Man stares at him for a long time, then turns to rummage through the crammed shelf on his wall, until he can pull out an iron hoop, about the size of a large pine cone. “Take this. You never know when you might need some iron.”

Steve takes it, and it’s heavy and warm in his palm. “Thank you.”

The Wise Man smiles, then reaches out and touches Steve’s chest with one bony finger. “He’s coming,” the Wise Man says, and Steve can’t help how his heart skips a beat at the words. “Farewell.”

The morning they leave is overcast and grey, but the weather is milder, the cold snap finally over. The back of the winter has been broken, and it’s tipped slowly towards the spring; Steve laments that he won’t see again how the trees start to go green, or lay under his favorite bird cherry tree as it blooms.

There aren’t many people to see Steve off. Most of them were friends of Mother’s, or people whom Steve had helped, but most of the men are out for a hunt and the women tending cattle in the sheds. They wish Steve well, and some of them even look sad to see him go. He tries to smile at them. He tries.

When Steve, his landlord, and the two other men riding with them leave, Steve turns his back at the village and the grave of Mother, closes his eyes, and prays for the impossible.

The first three miles are relatively quick and easy, even if the horses are struggling a little with the powdery snow. But at the crossroads, surrounded by thick, old forest, the horses stop. When Steve peers around the man riding in front of him, his heart leaps up to his throat.

In the middle of the road stands a tall young man, dressed in travel clothes, leaning on a staff. His dark hair is tied up, and in the wintry light his eyes look paler than Steve remembers; a silvery flank of a fish, the green of the first leaves, the glimmer of ice in the sun.

“Who are you?” the man leading their expedition asks, clearly impatient with anybody trying to impede their journey.

“That’s a funny question,” the bear-boy replies mildly. “For you and your people have many names for me and my kind.”

“Move,” the man says, exasperated. “We’re in a hurry.”

The bear-boy smiles, slow and amused. “You have something that belongs to me,” he says, and his eyes turn towards Steve. “I have come to invite him in.”

When their eyes meet, a flush of warmth creeps up from Steve’s toes to his chest, like he’s dipped his feet into a hot bath, and his left foot twitches, eager to dismount. As the bearling looks him over, gaze sliding from Steve’s eyes down to his shoulders, his waist, his thighs, Steve suddenly forgets that it’s freezing. His heart feels like it’s singing, and he longs to reach out and pull the man into his arms, push his face into the man’s hair to see if it’s still as soft as he remembers.

“Nonsense,” Steve’s former landlord huffs. “Move out of our way.”

He gets only a snort as his answer.

“You villagers and your hurry,” the bearling says, almost lazily. “You ask me for my name when you don’t care for it; yet deny me when I request something that is mine. But I’ll oblige you; I shall tell you my name. There are, after all, so many of us, no matter how much you pray for us to stay out of your lands.”

The landlord looks a little uneasy, but Steve’s suddenly calm, even with his heart beating madly in joy. The thick clouds part for a second and two, and sunlight bathes the crossroads in a cold, slanted winter light.

“People call us honey-paws,” the forest spirit says, draws an idle circle in the snow with his staff. Something rustles in the thicket on the right side of the road. “They call us forest-apples, Scythe-prowlers, swingers in golden chains.”

A brown bear and two cubs pad slowly out of the woods, coming flank-to-flank with the man standing on the road. The bear-boy smiles at them, then at the landlord who’s gone white and terrified, before turning towards Steve.

“Come, Steve,” he says softly. “You’ve been patient, and I have answered your call.”

Steve gets down from the horse, despite the surprised and protesting noises from the other men, and takes his bag. As soon as his feet hit the snow, the world narrows down to the bearling and his companions, and Steve doesn’t register the men scrambling to turn their horses, cursing under their breaths. When he blinks, the road is empty, and he’s walking closer and closer to the dark-haired boy from the woods, until he can drop the bag and open his arms.

The man is warm and lean against him, smelling like freshly cut logs and heavy snowfall, and Steve knows that he would do anything, _anything_ for it to be real, to stay real.

“My name is Bucky,” the bear-boy says softly against Steve’s ear.

“I know,” Steve says, startled to realize that it’s indeed true: the name feels familiar, like it’s been somewhere inside him for all these years, waiting for its time. “You live in me.”

Bucky smiles, and Steve has to lean down, cup his face with his gloved hand. He hovers there, his lips barely a breath away from Bucky’s, until he can taste the berry-sweet curve of Bucky’s mouth and press against it. Bucky grips the lapels of Steve’s fur coat and kisses back, and Steve wonders if everything he’s done in his life has just been the woodsfolk’s way of preparing him for this; to be finally invited in.

“This is Paju, my littlest sister,” Bucky says when they part, and reaches to caress the bear mother’s snout with his hand. “And her babies, born under the snow. They would like to welcome you, too.”

Bucky lets go of Steve’s coat and steps back, and Steve crouches so that he’s on eye level with the bears. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I can’t thank you enough for everything.”

Paju grunts at him, but the sound is soft, somehow, and her snout is warm and wet as she noses Steve’s jaw, huffing. The cubs put their front paws on Steve’s knees and get up to stare at him curiously, and Steve very, very carefully lays his hand down on the head of the larger of the cubs. The fur is damp and still baby-soft, and Steve thinks that his heart swells three sizes in his chest as he cups the cub’s head with his palm.

“This is Karpalo,” Bucky says softly, kneeling down next to Steve and picking the tiniest bear up gently. He rocks the cub a little in his arms, and it makes a low, happy noise, tries to bat Bucky’s hair. “His sister is called Juolukka.”

Steve strokes Juolukka between her ears and she growls at him playfully, pokes Steve’s thigh with her nose.

“Let us go,” Bucky says, smiling, and gets up, Karpalo still in his arms. “We have a long way to reach the court, and the light is short. Help me a little.” He gestures towards the bear cub, then at a sling around his body.

Steve stands too, picking up his rucksack, and takes Karpalo from Bucky, wraps him in the fabric on Bucky’s back so that he’s secure and not in danger of falling. Then he hoists his own bag on his shoulders, takes Bucky’s hand, and they set off into the woods.

They walk through the forest slowly, Paju and Juolukka trailing ahead of them to clear the way through the snow. Karpalo is occasionally sniffing the air, too small to walk the whole way on his own, his snout peeking from the folds of the sling.

“My mother will want to meet you,” Bucky says as they’ve been traveling in a companionable silence for several miles. “I know Tapio’s folk is in your favor, for you have always been kind to us - they wouldn’t have invited you if they weren’t - but my mother is not easy to please. She might ask for something in exchange of what’s already yours.”

“I’ll meet your mother,” Steve says and squeezes Bucky’s hand tighter. “Anything she wants from me, she will get, if it means I’m allowed to have you.”

Bucky leans against him a little, turns his face so that his cool nose is pressing against Steve’s cheek. “I have loved you and followed you from afar for a long time, yet you know almost nothing about me. How can you love me this much when I’m a stranger to you?”

Steve stops and turns so that he can look at Bucky better, cup his face with his hand. “Bucky,” he says softly. “Ihalempi, Otavainen, look at me.”

When Bucky looks up, Steve presses their foreheads together and says, “But I _do_ know you. You built your nest inside me when I was young, and even when I wasn’t allowed to remember you, I learnt about you in secret, without my knowledge. Now you have given all that back to me, like you gave me your name.”

He leans in and kisses Bucky on the mouth; kisses his cheek, the side of his nose, his furrowed brow. “This is just the beginning, dearest,” he murmurs. “I will be with you until we cross the river of Tuonela, and I swear to learn every small thing about you before that.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, closing his eyes for a couple of moments. Then he inhales deeply and looks up, quirks a smile. “Come. We are close to the border.”

Only a mile later they step into a clearing, Paju plowing the way through the thick snow. The clearing is a perfect circle, and a stream is running through it, free of ice even in the winter. Steve’s never seen a place like this, but he’s heard of them: the spirit clearings, which might look like an inviting place for outsiders but can swallow intruders whole, leaving them wander endlessly within its border.

Steve knows that he’s safe in the circle with Bucky, but it doesn’t stop him being nervous, glancing around like he’s expecting the trees to lean closer and snatch him.

“Take off your gloves,” Bucky says, and Steve does, surprised when the air isn’t bitingly cold on his bare hands. The snow is almost knee-deep, but the air feels warm and gentle on his skin.

Bucky lifts Karpalo down from the sling, and shuffles something around in his bag, then instructs Steve to walk a little closer to the stream. Juolukka rubs against Steve’s leg, like she’s sensing his nervousness and is trying to offer comfort. Even Paju noses his stomach, and Steve buries his hands in her coarse fur for a moment to ground himself, to prepare for whatever is coming.

As Steve stops about twenty steps away from the water, he can hear muffled voices, and a stray melody like somebody is singing. Bucky presses against Steve’s back and covers his eyes with his warm hand. “Close your eyes,” he says softly against Steve’s ear, and Steve obeys. “You are not allowed to see the line between our halls and the woods yet. I will guide you.”

A cup is put in Steve’s hand: it feels like smooth-worn wood, Steve thinks, when he runs his thumb around the rim. Bucky’s free arm circles his waist, pulls them flush together.

“Drink, Steve,” Bucky whispers, his lips tickling the shell of Steve’s ear. “You’re welcomed. Come in, love. Come in.”

 _Never drink from a forest-dweller’s cup,_ Steve thinks, the words of washer hags rising to his mind unbidden. _But I have nothing to be afraid of. I am welcomed. They have invited me in._

Bucky squeezes him a little, comforting, and Steve swallows, raises the cup to his lips, and takes a sip. The liquid is cool and it tastes like honey and wildflowers, warming him as it goes down. He takes another sip, then another, drinks and drinks from the bottomless cup until it runs dry and his stomach is heavy and full and so, so warm.

He walks forward when Bucky nudges him, takes the twenty steps to the stream and steps over it with Bucky still clinging to him like a baby bear. Warm air touches his face, and Bucky’s hand brushes through his hair, taking his knitted hat away.

Then Bucky presses a kiss on his jaw and says, “Welcome to the wood court, Steve.”

When Steve opens his eyes, it’s summer.

They’re still in the clearing, but the snow is gone and the wildflowers are blooming all around them in bright, vivid colors; bees are zipping from flower to flower greedily, and the stream is bubbling happily.

Bucky touches his forearm, and Steve turns to him, a _thank you_ already on his lips. Bucky’s thick travel clothes have disappeared, and he’s in a shirt and breeches made from light, familiar-looking forest-green fabric. There’s a bright, happy light in his pale eyes, and Steve’s heart feels like it’s stuck in his throat, amazed and so in love that it feels like a song is swelling inside him.

“Come on,” Bucky says, reaching his hand out to Steve eagerly, and as Steve goes to take it, he realizes that his own winter clothes are now replaced with the soft clothes of the woodsfolk, too. “We’ll go to my quarters, where you can wash off the dirt, before we go face my mother.”

A path leads from the clearing back into the woods, but now there are small houses everywhere, and the air is full of singing, by both birds and the woodsfolk. They pass some people on the path, and every single one of them greets Steve with a nod and a smile, sometimes with welcoming greetings, like they all know him. Maybe they do.

Bucky’s rooms in the court are small but comfortable. Steve leaves his rucksack next to the soft-looking bed and washes his face and hands in the small, clear-water spring in the corner of the room, before Bucky takes his hand again and leads him into the halls. They are tall and green, with leaf-ceilings and a carpet of the softest moss, and Steve’s head keeps turning, trying to see all the marvels around him.

Mother of bears, Hongatar, is sitting under a high branched tree, on a throne carved from sweet-smelling juniper, with five bear cubs playing at her feet. Her hair is long and dark, piled up on her head in a tangle of braids and lichen-grey ribbons, and her ageless face is stern, even with the children tumbling around her seat.

“Emoseni,” Bucky says, pulling Steve flush against his side. “This is Steve, the man Tapio has called in.”

Hongatar regards Steve with her cool, slightly contemptuous gaze; looks up and down, and then says, “I hope you understand what an honor this is, villager. Your kind doesn’t often get to roam these halls.” She purses her mouth. “The less the better, if you ask me.”

“Mother,” Bucky hisses, humiliated, and Steve squeezes his hand.

“I’m grateful for this honor, Lady Hongatar,” Steve says, bowing his head a little. “I will never take the gift given to me for granted.”

The bear mother purses her lips again, not looking very impressed. She glances at Bucky, narrows her eyes a little, and tuts, “Not so hastily, child. You might be worthy of the court, but my sons are not for everybody’s taking.”

Steve stands a little taller, lifting his chin. “Give me the price, and I will pay it in any way I can.”

Hongatar looks at them for a long time, like she’s searching Steve’s words for any traces of dishonesty. Bucky presses himself more tightly against Steve’s flank, shoulders squared defiantly.

“There is a marsh, no further than four miles from here, where a kratti lives,” Hongatar says then. “It stole something precious from us a long time ago; you will know it when you see it. Bring me what was stolen, and I will deem you worthy of my son.”

Steve bows his head again in respect. “Consider it done.”

Hongatar snorts a little, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. “You have until sunrise.” Then she turns towards her grandchildren playing at her feet, and Bucky tugs Steve away.

If Steve’s honest to himself, he doesn’t know much about marshfolk - the Wise Man never really told him about them, only how to avoid their dwellings. He does know about the kratti, the malevolent ghosts who sprawl over their buried treasures, guarding them from those who wish to steal the gold, but that’s where his knowledge ends. He’s never seen an aarnihauta, an enchanted pit, before.

“The will-o’-the-wisp started burning on the marsh two nights ago. That means it’s been a decade since the kratti stole the treasure, and the magic binding it to the aarnihauta is weaker,” Bucky explains as they walk through the halls of Tapio’s court. “Tonight is the chance to take back what the kratti took, before the treasure sinks again down into the swamp for another ten years.” He glances up at the sky, visible through the leafy canopy. “You don’t have to leave just yet. There’s still too much light to see the will-o’-the-wisp.”

Steve smiles at him. “You know a lot more about this than I do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but quirks a small smile. “Come,” he says then. “Rest while you still can, I’ll tell you about my brothers and sisters.”

They go back to the chambers, and Steve curls up behind Bucky on the feather-soft bed, presses his face into the nape of Bucky’s neck, and just breathes, while Bucky tells him stories about the court, about his siblings and the mischief they get into.

“I don’t know what the treasure is,” Bucky says suddenly, after falling quiet in the middle of his story. His voice is soft, and when Steve looks up, there’s a thoughtful frown on his forehead. “I was still young when it was taken, and Mother never told me; just that it is important to our kin.”

“Can you tell me more about the kratti?” Steve asks, hooking his chin over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s knowledge is invaluable to him, because Steve has heard stories of the eerie howling and how it’s possible to wrestle a kratti, but other than that, his knowledge is limited, and he’s a little nervous.

Bucky turns and touches Steve’s forehead with his forefinger, biting his lip. “The kratti are made of shadows, and feed on the life force of those who make the mistake of stepping onto their marshes,” he says. “You need to be careful. The kratti won’t care about your spirit, because you’re a human and too weak to sustain the ghost for long. But it can still trick you, make you step into the swamp and drown.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand and presses it against his own chest. “I’ll do my best,” he promises, and Bucky shakes his head, fondly.

“Your best will have to do,” he replies, but there’s a good-humored edge in his voice, and Steve laughs, pulling Bucky tighter against him.

They lie there, warm and close, until the light starts to dim, and it’s time to go. Bucky gives Steve a fine, grey cloak to put over his clothes, explaining that it will keep him warm and shield him from prying eyes in the dim forest. At the door, Bucky grabs him by the front of his shirt and kisses him for a long time, clearly visible to anybody walking down the hall.

“Good luck,” Bucky says a little breathlessly when they part. His lips are berry-red and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones, and Steve can’t help but lean in to steal another kiss.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, kisses Bucky’s fingers, and turns towards the path that will take him to the marsh.

He covers the four miles at a brisk pace, and by the time he reaches the swamp, the twilight has fallen. There’s mist hanging low upon the marshland, but otherwise it’s almost eerily quiet, only birds calling to each other in the trees before going to sleep. Steve sits down on a fallen tree trunk, and settles in to wait for the will-o’-the-wisp to appear.

He knows that somewhere in the mist, the kratti is sleeping, about to awaken any moment, and for the first time since getting his task, Steve feels unsure. He has no idea what dealing with the kratti is like, and Bucky didn’t tell him how to trick the ghost. His toes are cold in the light boots he’s wearing, and he tries to curl and uncurl them to get the blood flowing, as he stares at the marsh, trying to come up with a plan.

Suddenly, somebody covers Steve’s eyes with warm hands, and a voice whispers, “Caught you.”

When Steve’s stopped flailing in surprise, he turns around and is greeted by Bucky’s grinning, mischievous face. He’s pulled another grey cloak over his clothes, and looks like he’s been running, red-cheeked and bright-eyed. Steve stares at him dumbly for a while before asking, “What are you doing here?”

Bucky shrugs, climbs gracefully over the trunk to sit next to Steve. “Did you really think I would send you off to face a kratti alone? You might know a lot about the woods, Steve, but this is marshfolk. You need me if you want to finish my mother’s task.”

Steve laughs a little, relieved. “I’m glad you’re here,” he admits, and Bucky presses their shoulders together, smiling.

They sit in silence for a while, as Bucky looks over the marsh, frowning. “The area feels enchanted,” he says. “I think the kratti has put on a spell on the pit.” He murmurs something that sounds like a curse under his breath. “Woodsfolk don’t use iron, I don’t have any.”

Steve frowns. “What do you need iron for?”

Bucky takes Steve’s hand and lifts it over his head so that he can burrow under Steve’s arm. “If there’s a pact put upon the aarnihauta, one must throw in something made of iron to raise the treasure from the pit,” he explains.

 _Iron_ , Steve thinks, and suddenly remembers the Wise Man’s parting words, and reaches for his clothes. His heavy winter garment is gone, but there, in the pocket of his vest, lies the iron hoop he got as a gift.

Bucky’s eyes go wide and round. “Where did you get that?”

“The Wise Man gave it to me,” Steve explains. “He thought it might be useful.”

“Perfect,” Bucky says and reaches out to touch the hoop with his fingertip, caress the metal curiously like he hasn’t seen anything like it in a long time. “You were so lucky to have him in your village. Tapio thinks highly of him. We must send a message as thanks to him later.”

The darkness falls slowly; the summer nights are never truly dark, but it feels dimmer near the marsh than it probably would in the woods. They sit in silence, watching the swamp, waiting for the telltale flicker of green and blue.

When the will-o’-the-wisp appears, Bucky springs up from the trunk. “Yes!” he whispers, gesturing at Steve. “I will lure the kratti away from the aarnihauta, and you go to grab the treasure.”

“No,” Steve protests, frowning, “I will lure it away and _you_ go raise the treasure.”

Bucky shakes his head, huffing with frustration. “Steve, there’s nothing you can do to make a kratti interested in you. The kratti are drawn to us, so I must be the one to trick it.”

Steve sighs and puts his hands up in surrender, not fully accepting the plan but willing to give up the argument for now, because they don’t have much time. “Alright,” he says. “Be safe.”

Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s cheek and pecks a kiss on his mouth before fading into the fog. Steve waits in silence, until the singing starts: it’s low and melodic, in a language he doesn’t know; slow like the ancient songs for bringing down the bears in Steve’s old village, and it makes something warm flood into Steve’s veins.

The warmth turns into ice, though, when he hears the high, piercing howling rise from the marsh, as the kratti awakes. Steve almost starts after Bucky in panic, but then the will-o’-the-wisp flickers again and starts to burn brighter, and he knows his chance has come, and he has to trust Bucky and take it.

He creeps towards the lights on the marsh as the howling slowly moves away from the aarnihauta. The marsh is oddly solid under his feet, like it knows he’s coming and wants to aid him in his quest; Steve sends a quiet thank you to anybody helping him. When he reaches the place where the will-o’-the-wisp is burning, he finds a circular pond of swamp water, calm and black like an animal’s eye. Bucky is still singing somewhere, but the sound is growing fainter and fainter, like he’s moving further away from the swamp.

Steve pulls the iron hoop out of his pocket, thinks about Bucky’s twinkling eyes and sweet smile, and throws the hoop into the dark pond.

There’s no splash as the hoop breaks the surface, but the waters part, swirling silently around the pit, faster and faster until a gap breaks in the middle of the swirl, and a small wooden box rises up. Steve crouches to pick it up, and it’s heavy as he takes it in his hands but growing lighter by every inch that takes it away from the pit.

As Steve tucks the box securely away into the inner pocket of his vest, he’s suddenly struck by a bright, urgent sense of dread, and his heart feels like a cold hand has clenched around it. He whips around towards the last place Bucky’s voice was coming from, just as the kratti’s howl slashes through the marsh, almost victoriously.

Steve doesn’t stop to think: he sprints across the swamp as fast as his long legs can carry him, and miraculously the marsh holds under his weight, preventing him from falling into the murky water.

He senses the kratti before he sees it: the air feels colder, and there’s a foul stench that overpowers the smell of the swamp. The kratti is a tangle of shadows, half-risen from the ground where the rest of its body is still wriggling, numerous hands groping towards Bucky, who’s standing on a tree stump at the forest’s edge. Bucky’s both hands are raised, and there’s a faint silver glow between his right palm and the writhing mass of the ghost, keeping it away. But his left hand is already covered in the kratti’s shadows, and Bucky looks pale and a little weak.

Steve reaches out his hand and closes his fingers around the shadow swallowing Bucky’s hand, wrestling it away. The kratti lets out a loud, chilling screech, thrashing in its place, but Steve’s stronger than the ghost, and his hold doesn’t slip. Inch by inch, Bucky’s bloodless skin is freed from the kratti’s power, until his fine, long fingers are visible again.

“Leave him alone,” Steve orders, steel in his voice. “Go back to your marshland, kratti, and don’t bother the woodsfolk any longer.”

The ghost hisses and spits at him, enraged and baffled, and Steve thinks he hears the words _prince of the golden chains_ and _mine_ in the noise as he grabs one of the kratti’s flailing inky limbs, trying to wrestle the ghost away. The kratti is strong, and Steve has to strain his muscles to throw it, struggling against the heaving mass. He grits his teeth, gathering his strength, and as he pushes, there’s a flash of silver between his hands, and the kratti is thrown several feet back. It lands in a tangle of squirming shadows, screaming in disappointed rage.

A tendril of silvery light sneaks to Steve, curling around his wrist and up his arm protectively, and when he glances back, Bucky’s standing up straighter, even if he looks slightly wobbly.

“I am not yours,” Bucky says to the kratti, and his voice gets stronger with every word. He looks inhumanly tall in the glow, like he’s bathed in moonlight. “My spirit is not for you to feed on, nor is my beloved’s. Get back.”

The kratti gives a last, hissing curse, and starts to slink away, back towards the aarnihauta. As soon as it’s out of sight, Bucky slumps, and Steve darts to catch him before he falls, helps him down from the tree stump.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, but his voice is a little weak again. “It was stronger than I expected. We must leave now, before it finds its treasure missing.”

Steve kisses Bucky’s cool forehead, relieved, but his own heart is still hammering hard in his chest. “Let’s go, I’ll carry you.”

Bucky nods, and Steve turns around and crouches a little, so that Bucky can climb on his back. As soon as Bucky’s clinging to him, Steve hoists him up more securely, and starts jogging away from the marsh, in the direction Bucky points out. The forest is dark, but Steve finds his footing easily, and it’s almost like the trees are parting on their way: he never stumbles on a root or gets a faceful of branches.

They’re already a safe distance away when a furious scream rises far behind them, echoing in the woods, and Steve quickens his pace just in case. When they reach the path leading back to the court, Bucky taps his shoulder and says softly, “Let me down, I can walk.”

Steve stops and waits for Bucky to slide down from his back. The half-full moon is casting its shine down on the path, and by its light, the forest looks like it’s covered in millions and millions of silvery spider webs. Bucky’s still a little unsteady on his feet; Steve doesn’t know if he’s tired from facing the kratti, or if the ghost managed to devour some of Bucky’s life force. He slips his arm around Bucky’s back to give him subtle support, and they walk together the rest of the way, slower now that the danger has passed.

Hongatar is standing in front of the court entrance, waiting for them, and Bucky lifts his chin in defiance as they approach. She looks at them silently for a moment, her face unreadable, and Steve uses the chance and pulls the wooden box out, handing it to her. She takes it, turning the box in her hands with a thoughtful frown while she stares her son down.

Then, her mouth suddenly turns into a smile which reaches her eyes, and she says to Bucky, “Poikaseni, otsoseni, don’t look so forlorn. I knew you wouldn’t be able to let him go alone.”

Steve blinks. “You did?”

Hongatar huffs a little, but she’s still smiling. “I know my son, and I knew he was needed to finish this task successfully. You were never meant to do it alone, Steven.” She hides the wooden box somewhere in her robes, and lays her hand on Steve’s head. “You have proved yourself to be a good man, and a worthy protector of my kin.”

Then, Hongatar cups Bucky’s cheek tenderly with her free hand, kisses his forehead, and says, “But even more than that, you two are worthy of each other, and you shall be more than happy together for the days to come.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, a little choked up, and squeezes Bucky tighter against him.

Hongatar nods, turning to head back to the court. “Go rest,” she says. “You’ve earned your place in my house.”

They go. Steve helps Bucky back to their rooms, and peels them both out of the dirty clothes that smell like swamp and the lingering stench of the kratti, before they slip under the duvet, tangled together. Underneath his clothes Bucky is pale and lithe like a young birch, and Steve runs his hands across the expanse of smooth skin on Bucky’s back, over the bird-like bones on Bucky’s hips and shoulders, reverently, like worship. It feels heady, intoxicating, just to be this close, with every inch of their bodies pressed tightly together.

“I’ll never let you come to harm again,” Steve says softly into Bucky’s hair, his fingers counting the notches of Bucky’s spine. It’s warm and safe under the covers, like a nest, and for the first time since Mother died Steve feels genuinely, utterly content.

Bucky lifts his head from where it’s resting against Steve’s shoulder and kisses him, achingly sweet, like overripe strawberries that grow in dry, sunny patches in late July. “Harm might come our way,” Bucky murmurs. “There isn’t a life in the woods that goes untouched by grief or hurt. But with you, it will never be unconquerable.”

Steve steals a second kiss, then third, fourth; resting his hand low on Bucky’s back, and quietly sending his gratitude to anybody who listened to his prayers.

“Tell me a story,” Bucky whispers, his voice already scratchy with sleep, and Steve does; he tells Bucky about Mother and her herbs, the songs she used to sing, the tales she sometimes told about Steve’s long dead Father. As he talks, Steve can feel Bucky slowly fall asleep, until there’s a warm, deeply breathing dead weight in his arms, and Steve’s own eyes have started to droop. He presses a kiss in Bucky’s hair, and tightens his hold a little, letting himself drift to slumber.

Steve has never slept more sweetly than that night.

*

The summer stretches on for longer in Tapio’s realm than it would in the human world. Steve and Bucky spend a lot of time just wandering in the woods, sticking so close to each other that it’s almost like they’ve been glued together with pine resin. Steve doesn’t know if there’s anything better in the whole world than lie in a sunbeam on the dry, warm forest floor with Bucky curled up next to him, and Karpalo and Juolukka tumbling around them. The cubs grow bigger and bigger by every passing day, until Karpalo is too heavy for Bucky to pick up, and the berry season is starting.

Bucky’s given the treasure they got back from the kratti in late July: a bracelet, intricately woven from small silver hoops, that he was meant to get before it was stolen.

“It symbolizes stability,” Hongatar says when she lays the chain on Bucky’s palm. “Longevity, protection, and the flourishing of our kin. Carry it with pride, and carry it with love.”

Steve wraps the chain around Bucky’s wrist and closes the complicated clasp on one darkening summer night, under the full, orange harvest moon, binding their fates together permanently.

For the first couple of weeks, neither of them can stop touching the chain every now and then; they touch it like there’s magic in it, something that needs to be nurtured, that will keep them tied together. But, unlike most enchanted jewelry Steve sees around in the court, the bracelet is just a bracelet, and a symbolic sign of Bucky’s status; of their union.

It feels sacred, still.

*

In mid-August, even the last bilberries have ripened, covering the woods in a carpet of dark blue. Steve’s fingertips are stained purple from picking them, as he cards his fingers slowly through Bucky’s dark, unruly hair. Bucky’s asleep, taking a nap with his head nested on Steve’s thigh. Karpalo is curled up on the other side of Steve, who’s leaning against a pine and enjoying the light breeze.

Steve startles when a cuckoo calls suddenly, and when he looks up, the bird is sitting on the lowest branch of the nearby tree. It stares down at him, cocking its head, almost curiously. Steve blinks up at the cuckoo, a little baffled, as Bucky sighs in his sleep and burrows closer, and--

It’s impossible, it’s been fourteen years, but in the forest realm a bird isn’t always just a bird, and it just might be the same one that led him to Bucky.

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly to the cuckoo anyway, smiling, his hand cradling the back of Bucky’s head. “Even if it wasn’t you - thank you.”

The cuckoo regards him for a while, calls again, and flies off. Steve watches it disappear between the branches, and resumes carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

 _Good luck_ , he thinks to himself, recalling the boy with lichen-grey eyes he met in the woods when he was a child. That same boy is now in his arms, in his bed, in every drop of blood in his veins. _Good luck, indeed._

**

**Author's Note:**

> [Feanor on tumblr](https://feanorinleatherpants.tumblr.com/about), [Roh on tumblr](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com).
> 
> Bear is karhu in modern Finnish, but it's been called for example otso, kontio, mesikämmen (honey-paw or mead-paw), otavainen (Otava is the Big Dipper in Finnish), kouko or kouvo (old man), metsän omena (apple of the forest), and with countless other names, mostly to not accidentally call it upon the people.
> 
> Kallohonka: lit. skull pine, a sacred tree  
> Tapio: king/god of the forest in Finnish mythology, his realm was called Tapiola  
> Hiisi: a sacred grove, a graveyard  
> Scythe: Orion's belt and the stars under it are called Väinämöisen viikate (Väinämöinen's scythe) in Finland  
> Tuonela: the land of the dead, separated from the land of the living by the river of Tuonela  
> Emoseni: mother of mine  
> Poikaseni: my (small) son / my baby (baby as in animal baby, not human baby)  
> Otsoseni: my otso (bear)  
> 


End file.
